"In the first place," replied Beatrice, firmly, "I shall never
marry any one. That is absolutely certain. In the next place,
I shall not re-read the novel; and to prove that I shan't, I
shall insist on your taking it with you when you leave to-day.
And finally, I'm nowhere near convinced that you're right about
my being . . . well, you might as well say the raw material,
the rough ore, as the virgin gold. It's only a bare
possibility. But even the possibility had not occurred to me
before. Now that it has, I shall be on my guard. I shall know
how to prevent any possible developments."

"In the first place," said Mrs. O'Donovan Florence, with equal
firmness, "wild horses couldn't induce me to take the novel.
Wait till you're alone. A hundred questions about it will come
flocking to your mind; you'd be miserable if you had n't it to
refer to. In the next place, the poison will work and work.
Say what you will, it's flattery that wins us. In the third
place, he'll tell you. Finally, you'll make a good Catholic of
him, and marry him. It's absurd, it's iniquitous, anyhow, for
a young and beautiful woman like you to remain a widow. And
your future husband is a man of talent and distinction, and
he's not bad-looking, either. Will you stick to your title,
now, I wonder? Or will you step down, and be plain Mrs.
Marchdale? No--the Honourable Mrs.--excuse me--'Mr. and the
Honourable Mrs. Marchdale.' I see you in the 'Morning Post'
already. And will you
continue to live in Italy? Or will you come back to England?"

"Oh, my good Kate, my sweet Kate, my incorrigible Kate, what an